


I come back to the place you are

by desertspring09



Series: In Your Eyes [1]
Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertspring09/pseuds/desertspring09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But on the other hand-- she couldn't deny that she wanted his approval, she thought. Or maybe approval wasn't exactly the right word, was it? Acceptance, maybe? </p><p><i>Affection</i>, supplied that entirely unhelpful voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I come back to the place you are

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 2x09, “The Brothers of the Mount.” 
> 
> This can be read as a somewhat chaste stand-alone, or as the beginning point for a more mature series, "In Your Eyes."

 

“If we're to continue our investigation of this case, I'm going to need you to more faithfully convey my assessment of the situation,” Strand said, his deep voice clearly frustrated, edged just slightly with the frost Alex had come to expect during tense exchanges.

The door slammed behind him as they entered their hotel suite in Forest Park, CA, where they'd been following up leads regarding the Brothers of the Mount, the monks who had been found dead in the nearby West Waddell Creek State Wilderness.

“You're the one who said you're... _concerned_ by some of the connections we're uncovering. I didn't make that up,” Alex responded, trying not to let her own irritation show. She blew an errant strand of hair from her face.

“I also never implied that I think that the connections were paranormal in nature, Miss Reagan,” he shot back.

She suppressed a snort that she knew would only make things worse. She was always Miss Reagan when he was annoyed with her. _It's how he gets to feel in control_ , she thought. _He always needs to feel in control_. 

“And I never said you _did_. But you saw the same video I did. Would you care to posit any other way that Edward Lewis managed to set up a noose and hang himself in just a few seconds? And how, hours away, the Brothers managed to commit suicide at the _exact same time_?”

“The burden of proof does not lie on me to disprove the supernatural, as I've said many a time.” He hastily jabbed at his glasses with a finger, shoving them back up the bridge of his nose. “Your inability to grasp this simple concept reflects poorly on you as a journalist. But then again, this isn't the first time you've needed reigning in, is it?” His eyes were cold, the remark tinged with a note of finality. He thought he'd struck a killing blow.

“Wow.” Alex said, no longer concerned that she'd be considered the condescending one in this exchange. She took a breath, tamping down on the anger that was now threatening to spill out into her tone.

“We need to get something straight, Richard,” she said, satisfaction washing over her when she saw him bristle at the use of his given name. “If you're concerned you're not being represented accurately, you should maybe choose different words. Audio doesn't lie. And quite frankly, your annoyance doesn't give you the right to take cheap shots at me. If you want to be angry with someone, be angry with yourself.”

“Are you seriously--” he started in, his face reddening.

“No.” Alex said, slashing one hand through the air in a gesture that brooked no interruption. “We're done for now. I think it would be best for us to take some time apart to calm down.” There was the sound of metal scraping on wood as she swiped her keys from the desk. “I'll be working from the courtyard, and I'll text you if I decide to go.” She grabbed her messenger bag and was out the door before he could muster a response. She left him in the suite, staring after her, his hands clenching at his sides.

The triumphant sound of her footfalls was dampened by the thin hotel carpet, but still, she felt victorious, and more than a little reckless. She'd done it. She'd finally ended an argument with Strand without feeling like she'd lost. Or worse, like she'd had to feign penitence in order to keep him on the show. He knew that was his trump card-- if he walked, the Black Tapes would end. And so, to this point, she'd always allowed him to win whatever arguments he prompted.

But no more. She wasn't sure why this was the fight that changed things. Maybe she was tired of knuckling under whenever his temper flared, as it so often did whenever he felt challenged. Or maybe it was that she was just plain _tired_. She'd been diligently working at getting more rest, but most nights, she only got four hours at best. Other nights, she barely got any. The chronic fatigue had worn her down, shortening her patience, making her more impulsive.

In a way, it was worrisome-- she knew Nic was concerned about her judgment as her insomnia began to impact her work. But in other ways, it was-- well, _freeing_. The Alex that was emerging wasn't as hesitant. She spoke her mind more readily, she stood up for herself more vehemently. She was more _honest_ about what she thought. Sure, the dark shapes hovering at the edges of her waking hours were a definite downside, but at least there was a silver lining. For once in her relationship with Strand, Alex was taking back some control.

She made her way to the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. The hotel was pretty standard-- a national chain, and Alex was a little disappointed that it didn't have more of a local flavor. Despite the inherent creepiness of the stories they'd been investigating here, the densely-forested area was beautiful-- lush and green, shimmering like an emerald in the late July heat. She made her way to the shaded courtyard and pulled the laptop from her messenger bag.

Once settled, she checked her email-- PNWS interns' requests for receipts, a follow-up message from Brenda Miller about the Song of Omphalos, and an interview invitation from another podcaster whose show had a similar paranormal bent. She stared into space, utterly unable to muster enough focus to respond to any of them. She knew that she should call to check in with Nic, to tell him how they'd fared so far-- which wasn't very well, all things considered. The coroner was being rather tight-lipped about the details of the Brothers' demise, and she was still waiting to hear back from the local rangers about a guide to the camp where they had been found.

Now that the prickly adrenaline rush of victory had begun to wilt in the hot summer sun, she felt anxious. Alex had never been able to relax when she knew someone was mad at her. Amalia had had to reassure her several times that their friendship wasn't over after their latest-- well, she couldn't exactly call it an argument, could she? She still wasn't entirely sure what had happened. But the bottom line was that there had been a brittle, sickly feeling in her chest for a week or so until she truly believed that everything would be fine. Given some time and space, anyway.

And so she sat in the meager shade afforded by the courtyard patio, restlessly drumming her fingers on the tabletop and contemplating just how long she would have to sit out there until Richard calmed down enough for her to go upstairs and smooth things over. Which she resented, but she'd probably do anyway. She sighed. Her temper was like a summer thunderstorm-- full of lightning, but mercifully brief.

To kill some time, she decided to work on transcribing some of her sleep journals. She'd gotten behind in the last few days, and knew she'd have to check in with Dr. Bernier before the week was out. She pulled up _sleepjournal.doc_ on her laptop and produced her recorder. After plugging in her headphones, she got to work, taking down the words she'd spoken nights before. She had three entries to get through-- that'd easily take at least an hour, she wagered.

As time wore on and the shadows lengthened across the pale bricks of the patio, she typed as though nearly in a trance, lulled by the monotone of her own exhausted voice and the rhythmic whirring of a fan in the background. She was so consumed by her task that she did not see Strand approach until he was looming over her, a bottle of water in hand. She pulled her earbuds out and squinted up at him.

“You've been out here a while. I figured you might be thirsty,” he said, holding the bottle out to her like an olive branch. Beads of condensation glistened on the outside of the plastic, promising refreshment. She licked her lip unconsciously.

“Oh. Thank you,” she said, accepting the bottle with gratitude.

It was both an unexpected gesture, and yet so like him. On one hand, it was completely within his character to refuse to acknowledge their spat. But never before had Strand been the one to come to _her_ to end a tiff. Well, unless he needed something. Maybe he needed something.

“Aren't you hot in that button-up?” she asked him. He had removed his jacket, but was still wearing his dress shirt from earlier in the day. Complete with a a dark blue tie, though it had been loosened somewhat.

He shrugged. “The sun will be going down in about an hour or so. The temperature can drop pretty quickly out here, as I'm sure you know.”

“Ah,” was all she said. She nudged out the chair next to her with her foot.

He did not sit. “Have you decided if you're leaving? And if so, when you'll be flying out?” His voice was stiff, but there was an uncertain note in it she found unfamiliar.

Now Alex was puzzled. “Our flight doesn't leave for another 48 hours. Did you want to leave earlier?”

“You said...” He paused for a moment, his brows wrinkling. “You said that you'd let me know if you decided to go. Did you not mean--”

“Oh.” Alex said. “No, I meant, like, if I decided to leave and go get _dinner_. There's too much left to do here for me to leave.” She took another sip of her water. “Though, if you'd like to go, I'm sure I can manage on my own.”

He stood, motionless in the stifling summer heat, as he searched for the right words. After a moment, he shook his head. “I had not planned to go, no.”

Relief washed over her, and she quietly exhaled a breath she'd been holding. “Well that's good. The interns hate rescheduling flights on short notice.”

But the truth was that she did not want him to go. For one, they were smack dab in the middle of a drowsy county where a creepy apocalypse cult was known to be recently active. And for two-- well, she didn't want him to leave while things were still so unsettled between them.

“Indeed,” he said. “Speaking of dinner, are you hungry?”

Her stomach rumbled in response, and she hoped it had not been audible. “I could eat, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Alex drove them to the restaurant in relative silence, save the soft tones of the classical music emanating from the speaker of their rental. Pickings were slim as far as food went-- a quick Google map survey of the area yielded a handful of local dive bars, a drive-in, and few pizza joints (immediately nixed by Strand, who requested “real food”). In the end, she'd walked back into the lobby and asked for a recommendation from the concierge, who'd pointed them in the direction of a local grille with good reviews only few miles away.  By the time they arrived, the syrupy gold of the sunset had given way to the dusky lilac tones of twilight. A soft breeze deliciously cooled her skin.

The grille had a faux-rustic exterior reminiscent of a saloon movie set, but there were enough cars in the parking lot to assure her that there must at least be edible food inside.

“Table or bar?” asked the hostess brightly, who looked to be barely out of high school.

Alex looked at Strand. “Preference?”

“Either is fine,” he said distantly, looking over her head to survey the interior, which continued its Western theme with large oaken barrels scattered about the dining floor in a slightly too-obvious way.

Alex peered past the hostess at the bar, which looked pretty standard, all things considered-- polished wood countertop, a wide array of liquor bottles, and the usual assortment of lighted neon signs. “Can we get dinner up here?”

“Of course,” the hostess replied.  
  
“Two for the bar, then.” The servers looked to be pleasantly chatty. Bartenders, in Alex's experience, were usually too busy for small talk.

“Sure. You can seat yourselves. Matt'll take your order whenever you're ready.”

The bar itself was almost empty, and they had no problem grabbing two stools a comfortable distance from the only other patrons there-- two men engaged in animated conversation about fishing. The bartender-- Matt-- pushed menus and two glasses of water their way. “What can I get ya?” he asked, a little brusquely.

“Rum and coke,” replied Alex, automatically, before she'd even considered what she might actually want.

“Jameson, neat,” answered Strand, his voice just a little husky. Alex raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. 

“You got it.” He looked Alex over for a moment, clearly wondering if he should ask for ID. In the end, he decided against it. She suppressed a chuckle. Here she was, nearly a decade out of college, and she still looked like she needed to be carded.

They busied themselves with intently studying the menu, neither of them quite ready to break the ice with idle chatter. The anger might have passed, but the awkwardness of their earlier dispute was still lingering in the air like a late-summer chill. The offerings were comprised of standard meat-and-potatoes fare, broadened just barely with some seafood options. In the end, Alex ordered the steak and asparagus, and Strand the blackened salmon. With the menus efficiently whisked away, they were left alone with their drinks and their uncomfortable silence.

Just when it had gotten to be nearly unbearable, Strand cleared his throat. “Any luck with the rangers?” he asked, following with a sip of his whiskey.

“Not so far. I figured we could drive out to the ranger station tomorrow morning and see if anyone would be willing to talk with us there. As far as I know, the area should still be open to visitors, as long as the scene isn't still being actively investigated.”

“That's a good plan.”

“Have you made any headway on the Hausdorff lead?”

They continued back and forth in this manner-- each benign, safe exchange loosening the intangible knots of tension that had wound around them earlier in the day. The rum and coke definitely helped, Alex thought. She hadn't had much by way of lunch-- woman cannot live on protein bars alone-- and so the liquor's relaxing effect did not take long to settle upon her.

Strand, too, seemed to loosen some as he approached the end of his drink. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt in a way that showed the muscles of his forearms. Alex felt a telltale flutter begin in the back of her throat-- not an unfamiliar one, to be sure, but also one she hadn't felt in weeks. She finished off her drink, nodding to the bartender in assent as he gestured to her glass. He pulled it away and began to fix another.

“I think we've just about exhausted the topic of work,” he said, his blue eyes surreptitiously glancing her way as she speared a bit of asparagus. “How have you been sleeping lately?”

Alex sighed. “Better. Still not great. Oddly enough, I sleep easier when we're on the road.”

“That's interesting,” Strand said. “Why do you think that is?”  
  
_Because I know you're nearby_ , thought Alex.

“I don't know, really. Maybe the unfamiliarity of the surroundings helps," she said. "If I don't know every inch of the room, maybe it's easier for me to accept that every strange shadow isn't something sinister. Or it could just be that travel is especially tiring.”

“Solid theories, I'd wager,” he said. “I'm glad things are improving.”  
  
“Some nights more than others, for sure,” she said, warmed by his goodwill.

It was strange, these disparate reactions Strand brought out in her. His pervasive, nearly-arrogant assertions that everything he believed was _obviously_ correct provoked something within her. Made her want to push back, made her want to claw away at his measured self-control. Some days, she just wanted to shake him up to see lay beneath.

But on the other hand-- she couldn't deny that she wanted his approval, she thought. Or maybe approval wasn't exactly the right word, was it? Acceptance, maybe?

 _Affection_ , supplied that entirely unhelpful voice.

And suddenly there it was, the force behind the magnetic push/pull of her relationship with Strand, crisply laid bare before her. It was more obvious, more clear to her now than it'd been since the day she met the man.

The bartender slid a drink her way, and she accepted it gratefully, eager to distract herself before she could follow that thought to its natural end.

“And you?” she asked, taking a sip as she turned back to Strand. “How have you been holding up? I know that this has been pretty stressful for you, considering...” Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to damage the fragile truce between them by speaking Coralee's name and winding him back up again.

Strand signaled for a second whiskey. “Stressful is certainly one way to put it,” he said, wincing slightly. His deep voice was gravelly. “But I'm better than I was.”

“That's for sure. I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but the Unabomber look wasn't all that great on you,” she said, attempting to inject some levity into her tone.  
  
He chuckled. “Not a fan of the beard?” he asked.

“I think I like this look better.” He wasn't barefaced, but he'd shaved within the last few days, at least. Dark stubble dotted his chin, emphasizing his jawline.

“I see,” he said, a tentative smile playing at the edge of his lips. The tension had almost completely faded from his shoulders. “Well, that's enlightening. Any other preferences you'd care to share with me?” 

Alex laughed, a staccato burst of sound. “As though it would make any difference,” she teased. “If there's one thing I know for sure about you, it's that you'll end up doing whatever it is you want to do, the rest of the world be damned.”

Her stomach lurched as his smile disappeared. He looked hurt, his lips thinning to a firm line. Clearly, she'd tripped some unseen conversational landmine. She thought she'd uncovered most of those by now.

When he spoke, he did not meet her eyes. “Alex, what you think matters to me.”

“Does it?” she asked, loathe to disturb the detente they'd found, but still unable to stop herself. “Judging by what you said earlier, it doesn't really seem like you hold my opinions in all that high a regard.”

Strand shifted uncomfortably on his barstool.

“What I said earlier-- it was out of line. I apologize.”

Alex swallowed, unsure that she hadn't just hallucinated his words. After a moment, she responded simply. “Thank you. I... I appreciate the apology.”

Without looking him in the eye, she reached over, impulsively giving his hand a quick squeeze.

Strand grasped it before she could pull away, running the pad of his thumb over her fingers.

The softness-- the _intimacy_ \-- of the touch sent an arc of electric up her arm. They'd been in one anothers' company for months now. They shared rental cars, hotel suites, research desks. Alex could count on one hand the number  of times he'd touched her intentionally, and three of those had been handshakes.

The other-- well, the other time had surprised her. It was the day after Maddie Franks' autopsy report came back, just before she'd taken her leave from PNWS. Exhausted from a long day of talking to police, and an even longer night of elusive sleep, she'd stopped by the office to grab some essentials. It was time to go. She had nothing more to give, and wouldn't until she had some time to let the events of the previous day settle. Deep down, she knew that would take time. Maybe a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe longer.

She'd seen Strand coming towards her in the hallway, but before he could greet her, Nic stepped into his path. She could not hear precisely what he said, but judging by how quickly Strand's face grew solemn, she knew Nic had been passing on the news of Alex's... "holiday."

She felt like a voyeur, standing there, watching the two men have a private conversation about her right out in the open. With a rising lump in her throat, she turned and made a beeline for her office.

A few moments later, Strand quietly knocked on the open door as she bent over her desk, gathering a stack of papers. She turned to face him, but couldn't raise her eyes further than the clip of his tie.  
  
“I guess you've heard, then?”

He'd closed the door behind him. Without acknowledging her question, without saying anything at all, he'd walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her. And that's when she'd buckled. The hot tears she'd somehow managed to keep at bay spilled out of her as she wept into his gray suit jacket. Her arms had been pressed rigidly to her chest as the sobs came, as though she were trying to hold her insides in.  
  
Tentatively, he raised one hand to stroke her hair.

They stood like that for some minutes, no words passing between them, until her breathing stilled. When she finally pushed him away-- gently, appreciatively, the scent of his cologne clinging to her fingers-- she felt a flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks. “Oh, Richard. I'm sorry. I've gotten your shirt all wrinkled.”

He looked down, idly wiping at the wet smudge on his chest. “It's nothing, really.” After a beat, “Can I do anything?”

She shook her head as she reached for a tissue. “I don't think so. I think I just need some time away. But thank you.”

“Of course.” He put a hand on her shoulder, delicately. “Alex, if you need anything-- well, please call. I look forward to seeing you back soon.”  
  
She attempted a reassuring smile, unsuccessfully. “Thank you, Richard. You take care.”

And that was the last she'd seen of him until the day she turned up on his front porch, inquiring about a Black Tape titled "Cheryl."

 

Back at the bar, Strand released her hand, but her skin still felt electric where he had touched it.

“So, dessert?” Alex asked, trying to lighten the mood. “The brownie sundae looks good.”

 

* * *

 

The brownie sundae was indeed good. They ordered it with two spoons. Alex eagerly attacked the vanilla ice cream, while Strand favored the rich chocolate of the brownie itself. The conversation flowed easily as they ate. They talked about the books Alex had read while she was on her break (she loved biographies), and Strand filled her in on the status of the renovations being done to his father's house. The kitchen needed a total overhaul, and he was hoping to have work crews in within the week to re-tar the roof and update the ventilation system. Alex offered to help him choose the paint for the bedrooms, as the faux-wood paneling would soon be removed. Strand accepted her offer, as left to his own devices, he'd paint the entire house in an unappealing, utilitarian white.

At some point, the topic turned to wine-- or rather, the sad state of the grille's current wine list, in Strand's estimation. “Not a single French wine on this list,” he sniffed derisively.

“Richard, I don't know if you've noticed or not, but we're practically in a theme restaurant.”  
  
“The only decent wine on this list is the Malbec,” he continued, “and I'm convinced that's due to sheer luck.”  
  
“I do love a good Malbec,” she said.  
  
“Really? I would have squared you as a white wine drinker.”  
  
Alex made a face. “ _Blech_. And now we're back to you thinking poorly of me,” she ribbed him as she bumped his knee genially with her own.

Strand grinned. “Duly noted. But come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you have a glass.”

“Mmm. Well. I love wine, reds especially. But they don't always love me,” she said.

“How's that?”

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, shrugging. “I guess... well, I guess they make me a little too truthful. ' _In vino veritas_ ,' and all that,” she said, a slight blush rising to her cheeks.

“And that's a bad thing?” He cocked an eyebrow, the deep tones of his voice subtly mischievous. Her stomach did a nervous flip. It almost sounded like... like _flirting_.

“Oh, I'd say it's a very _dangerous_ thing, Dr. Strand,” grinning back at him.

They were interrupted by the bartender. “Anything else I can get you guys?” he asked, clearly oblivious to the strange turn the conversation had taken between his two patrons.

“No, I don't think so,” answered Strand, breaking the spell.

“Just the check, please,” added Alex. He nodded back at her and and turned towards the register.

“Last bite is yours,” Strand said, reaching for his napkin.

“Well, if you insist,” Alex said, snagging the last morsel of brownie from the bowl.

They were each finishing their third and final drinks as the check slid towards them.  Before Alex could reach for it, Strand snapped it up. “My treat,” he said.

“You don't have to. The station will cover it,” she said, performing the standard protestations expected of joint diners since time immemorial.

“Let the Institute handle this one. Our budget is bigger, anyway.”

“I can't argue with that.” She dabbed at her mouth with her own napkin as Strand pressed down his company card.

“I'll be right back,” she said, reaching for her purse and heading for the ladies' room. As she stood, she felt a subtle wobbliness in her legs. It was the rum, of course. Not enough of it to make her drunk-- not over nearly two hours of food and conversation, anyway-- but just enough to make her skin pleasantly tingle. She liked the feeling of being tipsy, and it was an indulgence she didn't allow herself very often. Tipsiness made jokes a little more funny, the lights a little more warm, her skin just a little more sensitive. It bathed the whole world in the expectant glow of possibility.

In the restroom, she carefully checked her mouth for wayward smudges of chocolate, pleased to find none. She ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her necklace clasp, which had somehow managed to work its way down to her collarbone. Satisfied with these minor adjustments, she reached into her purse and applied a thin layer of lip balm before washing her hands. No shadows flickered at the edges of her vision tonight.

Strand was standing, signing the check when she returned. “Shall we go?” she asked, motioning towards the door.

“Yes, of course.”

As they exited the rustic wooden doors of the grille, a cool breeze buffeted their skin.

“Ahhhhh,” Alex exhaled. “That feels _nice_.”

“After the heat of the day, I am inclined to agree,” said Strand, pushing up his shirtsleeves even higher.

Across the road, there was a small pond, ringed with a jogging trail. At the mid-point, there was a lovely little bridge that halved the water, which shimmered darkly beneath the gibbous moon.

“Care for a walk?” she asked. “I need to walk off some of that brownie, and I bet we could lap that pond in about twenty minutes.” In truth, she knew that she should probably wait until the delicious tipsy feeling wore off before she got behind a wheel, but the walk _did_ look inviting. 

“It would be practically a crime to waste such a nice evening,” he said with a minute shrug, and they set off towards the path.

It was sparsely lit-- just enough pale lamplight to show the way, but not enough to compete with the natural glow of the moon overhead. As they walked in companionable silence, Alex breathed in the comforting scents of cedar and pine. The water rippled gently, the soft croaking of toads punctuating the hush. After months of startling at every shadow that moved, she was pleased that she felt so at ease, the telltale prickling of hairs at the nape of her neck entirely absent.

It wasn't long until they were at the far end of the pond, where the dark was deepest and no lamps interrupted the light of the stars, that she spoke.

“I've always wished I knew more about the constellations,” she said. “I never had much luck picking them out.”

“I was very interested in the stars in my younger years,” he said. “Which would you like to locate?”  
  
“I wouldn't even know where to start,” she said, exhaling. “I know they change with the seasons. What's up there right now?”

"See that one right there? The one that sort of looks like the Little Dipper, but smaller, and with a curved handle?”

“No. I see a bunch of dots,” she said.

He gestured in the direction of one particularly bright star. “That star-- right there. That's Vega. If you follow it down a little bit, you'll see it.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “I do.”

"That's Lyra. The harp.” He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “It's... it's connected to the myth of Orpheus. The story goes that he played his lyre so beautifully that no one could deny him, not even the Gods themselves.”

Alex knew about Orpheus, who had lost his beloved wife, Eurydice. Not once, but twice-- once to death, and then, again, in the underworld. She was certain that it was crossing Strand's mind, as well. She wondered if Coralee was ever very far from his thoughts.

Almost too hastily, she pressed on. “What about the others?”

Strand sighed. “There, to the left. That's Cygnus, the swan. Named for its association with Leda.”

“And what about that one?” she asked, pointing further down, mostly at nothing, hoping that there would be a constellation there. “What's that?”  
  
“I believe that's Sagittarius,” he answered. “You'll recognize that from your astrology columns, I expect.” There was a note in his voice that she assumed was supposed to be a joke.  
  
“Oh, you don't believe in demons or ghosts, and _now_ you're telling me astrology is fake, too?” she laughed.

“Shocking, I know.” He gave a low chuckle. “I'm a Sagittarius, by the way. Not that that means anything.”

“Really? I would have pegged you for a Scorpio.”  
  
“I don't know what that means.”  
  
“Oh so there _are_ some things you don't know?” She teased. “Don't worry. It means that you're always a _delight_ to be around.”

She reached out to poke him gently with her elbow. Just as she did, a giant toad bellowed what was possibly the loudest croak she had ever heard. It pierced the night, and she squeaked, promptly tripping backwards over her own feet.

She felt herself begin to fall, but strong hands quickly steadied her. Strand had her by the elbows. He carefully pulled her to her feet, where she came to rest in front of him, her back to his chest.

“Well _that_ was embarrassing. Thank you.”

But he spoke as if he hadn't even heard her. “Aren't you chilly? Your skin is... cooler than I expected.”

Goosebumps were indeed standing out on her skin. She hadn't thought to grab a cardigan before they'd left for the restaurant. “A little, yeah. But I was enjoying the night, so I didn't want to say anything.”

“I see.”

He reached out, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Is this better?”

Her heart was suddenly slamming in her chest as the warmth of his tall frame seeped into her body. “Yes. That's a lot better.” She reached up awkwardly, letting one of her hands rest on his arm.

Once again, they lapsed into silence as she relaxed back into him. He rested his chin lightly atop her head as they gazed out upon the dark water. The scent of his cologne rose up around her, this time tinged with the earthy spice of the trees behind them. Closing her eyes, the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing was soon the only thing that filled her ears. She felt the rise and fall of his chest against her, and allowed herself to wonder, just for a moment, what it might be like to fall asleep to that sound.

It might not be so hard to fall asleep to the cadence of his breathing, she thought. It might even be easy. Her pulse slowed, and her skin warmed beneath his touch.

They stayed that way for several minutes, just breathing together, until the outline of another couple began to make its way down the path towards them. They were clearly drunk, and the woman's loud (and terrible) singing shattered the solace of the quiet night. With obvious reluctance, Alex turned towards Strand. She flattened her palms against his stomach, unwilling to break the contact between them so soon.

“I suppose we should head back,” she said, regretfully.

“Indeed, it looks like we must,” was the reply, his voice low. And then, like the hero in some black and white film, he offered her his elbow. She smiled up at him through her lashes, and took it. Together, they continued the path around the pond and back towards the light.

 

* * *

 

The halls of the hotel were silent as they made their way back to the suite. Alex paused just inside the door, dropping her keys and purse on the desk. It was a small suite-- two bedrooms, joined by a communal living space that was already covered in piles of photographs and photocopies.

When she looked back at him, Strand was removing his tie. Her heartbeat sped up again. “Are you planning to stay up and work?” she asked, gesturing to a nearby pile of papers. 

“Oh, no. I think we should get an early start tomorrow, so I was going to turn in.”  
  
“Oh,” she said. She didn't really want to work, but she found herself a bit sad, nonetheless. She wasn't quite ready for the night to end. “I suppose that's a good plan.”

He stepped towards her, and she swallowed thickly. “Goodnight then,” she said.

He reached out to cup her face in one of his hands. A thumb ghosted over her cheekbone as she looked up at him, expectantly. She tipped her chin very slightly up, a clear invitation.

 _Yes._ She thought. _Yes._

But when he bent down, it was only to place the gentlest of kisses on her brow. She sucked in a breath, equal parts exhilaration and disappointment. Strand continued down, until his lips hovered just above the shell of her ear, his breath warm and close.

“Goodnight, Alex,” he whispered. “You should get some sleep.”

With that, he pulled back, and some emotion that she could not quite place flickered briefly across his face as he palmed the doorknob to his room. She blinked.

“Goodnight, Richard. I'll try.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, it was as if the previous evening had never occurred. Strand was back to his tightly-controlled self: all-business, focused solely on the case. Sensing it would be a bad idea to attempt to breach the wall, Alex said nothing as they drove the long, winding road to the ranger station.

In a way, she'd expected this. For as many ways as Strand was an enigma, he could equally be so very transparent, at least to Alex. If she had to place bets, she'd say it had something to do with Coralee-- and the very real and growing possibility that she might still be alive. And if she was, that meant, for whatever reason, that she'd abandoned him, leaving him under suspicion, and to believe her dead. It would be an incredible weight upon him.  
  
And so Alex tried not to push, not to add to that load. They would sort it out. They always had.

 

* * *

 

The next Monday morning, several days after returning from California, Alex arrived at the studio early. She had two interviews lined up, and wanted to make sure her questions were clearly outlined before they began. She needed quiet, to settle in before the interns appeared and the office exploded in boisterous discussions of the weekend's exploits.

As she entered her office and settled her jacket on the back of her chair, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar red gift bag on her desk. It was tall and slender, and a tuft of polka-dotted tissue paper puffed out from its top.

She reached in, curious, and withdrew a bottle of wine from inside. “Château du Cèdre Malbec,” the label read. “2009. Cahors, France.”

She grinned as she withdrew the card tucked inside. The inscription was written in a nearly-inscrutable cursive hand.

 

_A Scorpio? Really? Now I'm offended._

_Best,_

_RS_

  
  
She laughed as she settled the bottle upon her bookshelf, where she could look at it, and he would see it, too. Yes indeed, they would sort it out. They always did.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first (but probably not my last) TBT fic. It's the first fic I've written in years. Hopefully I'm not too rusty. The fic is entirely un-betaed, so please forgive any typos. I'd love any constructive criticism, and hopefully I'll find a home in this tiny fandom.
> 
> Edited for a few small plot details.


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